


soft pink light

by caelystrae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, F/F, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 19:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21325801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelystrae/pseuds/caelystrae
Summary: Ana teaches Angela the value of patience.
Relationships: Ana Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36





	soft pink light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [romnovs (tashatops)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tashatops/gifts).

> hewwo this is for my lovely friend vicky who wanted anamercy edging for her bday. i obliged

By all accounts, Angela and Ana are an oddly matched couple. 

To this, Angela cannot disagree, for she herself would not have believed that they would find themselves in a relationship, had one asked her seven years ago. Then, she and Ana argued as often as not, unable to see eye to eye on matters pertaining to Overwatch’s daily operation, and unwilling to try and find common ground, when it came to their differing personal moral codes. They still cared for one another, in their way, but such affection was far from romantic, was more of a begrudging respect for one another’s accomplishments, and the sort of camaraderie that develops between people who have saved one another’s lives one time too many.

It was not, then, _love_, not romantic in the least. 

But Ana was not the woman then that she is now, and Angela was not either. Both of them were so wrapped up in Overwatch, in mythologizing their own work with a deeply flawed organization, and to look at one another, and to see the truth of their existence, was a painful thing. It was impossible, to know what it was either of them was going through, what either of them was asked to give, and to think that Overwatch was worth the work that they put into it, the time, the passion, and so they fought, more often than not, because to commiserate would have been to acknowledge the wretchedness of that existence.

When they looked at one another, they saw their own suffering reflected back, and they thought, then, that the repulsion they felt was a hatred for the other’s methods, the other’s beliefs, and not a feeling entirely misdirected from the loathing they felt for themselves, in that time.

(They never hated each other, quite, never could, and never truly thought they did. All along, they cared, felt respect, and admiration, even if they thought they could not stand to be around one another.)

Now, they have grown, and recovered, and changed, have moved past Overwatch and into the future, and it is easier, to see the truth of what they felt in those days, not anger, not frustration, but their own pain reflected back—and now, distant from Overwatch, that pain is nearly gone.

But, still, Angela can agree that they are, perhaps, not the most expected match. 

Their values are different, certainly, always have been and always will be. Where Ana is willing to use lethal force, Angela hesitates, always, and while Ana sees hesitation as damnable, as deadly, Angela thinks it the wiser thing, more often than not. 

Ana is a soldier, with the warmth of a mother, and Angela is a doctor, all too often cold. They are not alike, in so many ways, never have been, and have no intention of becoming so, do not want their love to bleed into moderation, both enjoy that theirs are lives of extremes.

And that is fine, it is.

Most of the time, it does not even cause them any trouble, any conflict, because although they may not agree with one another’s methods, they both can respect the other’s results, and, perhaps more importantly to Angela, the other’s intent.

But sometimes…

Sometimes, Ana talks about how she wishes Angela were more patient.

Angela can be rash, she knows this. She knows this, and yet, she has no intention of altering her behavior.

“Slow down,” Ana will tell her, and “Good things come to those who wait,” and, “You’re young, yet, give it time.”

(Never matter the fact that, at 37, Angela hardly feels young anymore, even if she is being compared to Ana, who is 23 years her senior. 37 is beginning to push middle age, and she does not imagine that time will grant her much more wisdom than she has already. It was not age that changed Ana, it was the Fall, and Angela has been through that already, has had her world collapse around her and needed to rebuild herself, her identity, the same as Ana has.)

In her own opinion, Angela has not the time for patience. The nature of her work is such that she is always needed somewhere, urgently, is always busy with one thing or another. What good would patience do her? She is no sniper, has not the luxury of sitting, and thinking, and deciding to take the exact right moment to act. In trauma surgery, her specialty, every second matters, and if that bleeds over into her personal life, well, she does not mind, so much.

But Ana—Ana minds.

And Angela likes that, that it gets a rise out of Ana, enjoys pushing her, just a little, seeing what she will do, how she will react, if Angela acts in a way that she disapproves of. After all, the results are usually so _fun._

(And if, perhaps, she has another reason, if she feels compelled to push at all the people who care about her, to see if they will leave—that they need not speak of.)

When Ana asks her, then, to not touch herself while she is gone, away on some mission or another, with Jack, still on the trail of Gabriel, still chasing old ghosts after so many years, Angela considers obeying only for a moment, before deciding that the outcome of _disobeying _will be far more pleasant. Ana is not her commander any longer, and what tools she has available to punish Angela are always enjoyable enough, in the end—for both of them.

(If Ana did not enjoy it, too, punishing Angela, did not like to be in charge, and to call Angela naughty, to spank her and to make Angela please her, then Angela would not act out. It is only fun if the both of them are enjoying it, after all. And enjoy it they do.)

For the first week, Angela obeys, and the eighth day, the ninth, the tenth, but on the evening of the eleventh, when she knows Ana is due to be home, she puts relaxing music on, lights a few candles for ambiance, takes a nice warm bath, and then settles in to the bed they share to masturbate.

(Perhaps saying they share the bed is exaggerating things. When Angela is not on assignment for MSF, or helping the Recalled Overwatch, and when Ana is not off chasing old ghosts, then they return to this condo, and share this bed, but more often than not neither of them is sleeping here.)

Her efforts are mostly half-hearted. Aroused as she is by the thought of Ana punishing her, Angela does not particularly relish putting on a show, or being caught, is steeling herself for the inevitable embarrassment she will feel when Ana comes home and finds her like this, all splayed out, at what is surely not her most flattering angle, body surely not at its most alluring. In order to sell the illusion that this is unintentional, that she miscounted the days until Ana would arrive, she has forgone shaving, and lingerie, and although she is _clean_, she is certainly a bit insecure about how she looks with nearly two weeks of extra hair on her body, and nothing to hide it. That Ana will not have shaved either is not something Angela feels comforted by—it is her own hair she finds embarrassing, not her lover’s.

Probably, that embarrassment is a good thing. Although, on assignment, she routinely goes longer without sneaking a few minutes to herself in order to take the edge off of things, she still finds that eleven days without an orgasm makes this process perhaps quicker than it might be otherwise, and she _is _still anticipating what Ana will do to her, after all.

Will she make Angela kneel, and ask for forgiveness, to prove her contrition by eating Ana out, never rising from the floor, stuck there while her knees grow sore and her neck aches at the angle? Will she discipline her physically, take her over one knee and spank her until she will be too uncomfortable to sit normally, come breakfast? Will she pull her hair, bite her, take Angela roughly with a toy and a harness?

Maybe, she will do all of those things, in due time.

Any one of them would make for a lovely evening, and the thought is enough that suddenly, Angela’s fingers hardly feel adequate anymore, are nowhere near enough, compared to what she is sure she will feel later, Ana in and on and around her all at once, and so Angela reaches over into the bedside table, pulls out a toy, and is halfway through the process of inserting it into herself, humming in satisfaction when—

“_Angela_,” Ana’s voice cuts through the air, at once disappointed and chiding. “You couldn’t wait just one more day?”

Angela freezes, and the embarrassment that colors her cheeks is genuine. Bad enough that she did not shave, but now Ana has seen her at perhaps the least seemly of all moments, halfway through penetrating herself, bent over at an unflattering angle to ensure that the tip of the toy hits where she wants it to, legs spread open so that all of her is on display. She anticipated a little embarrassment, upon being walked in upon, but this is more than that, is a flush of shame, blooming in her chest, because something in Ana’s voice makes her feel so _small_.

(In a good way, of course. In day to day life, if Angela fails at something, it means one of her patients has died. If she is ashamed of what she has done, it means she has killed. With Ana, she is able to experience those same emotions in a more normal way, a better setting, one where the stakes are not so high, and to learn that failure does not have to be catastrophic.)

“Take that out,” Ana tells her, not waiting for a reply from Angela when none is immediately forthcoming, and Angela obeys, tries not to cringe at the _squelch _that accompanies the movement, betraying just how aroused she was.

Normally, arousal is a good thing, but Ana bid her not to make herself so, asked her not to touch herself, or to come, and she ought to have listened, because Angela is good, she _is_, knows how to follow orders, and follow them well.

And she wants to be good, she does, all of the time, but especially for Ana—it is just that, when the punishment is so fun, it can be hard to keep sight of that fact.

“So impatient,” Ana tells her, as she takes the toy from Angela’s hand, wipes the slick from it with one finger and holds it to the light as if to say _Look what you did, _“You’re always so impatient. What am I to do with you?”

Angela has a few ideas, suggestions, even, but she knows that if she asks for them, then that would hardly make them a punishment, and so she keeps to her role, instead, says only, “I’m sorry, Ana.”

“Are you now?” Ana asks her. “I was out risking my life, and you couldn’t even wait eleven days for me?”

At that, Angela wrinkles her nose, not comfortable at all with the way Ana says that so nonchalantly, and says, breaking character for a moment, “Please don’t say it that way.”

“I’m sorry,” Ana tells her, reading her tone and immediately moving to sit on the bed next to Angela, one hand turning her chin so that they are looking at one another, “I know it’s not something to be flippant about.”

(They do, they both do, but sometimes, when they are playing… Sometimes, danger, or the illusion of it, can be nice. Just not like this. Not when Ana really did die, once, in Angela’s eyes, did go on a mission and never return. That they were not together, then, or even considering a relationship, does little to soften that blow.)

“It’s alright,” Angela says, “I know you only meant it in character. It’s just…”

“Too close for comfort?” Ana suggests, and Angela nods.

“That exactly.”

A hum, from Ana, very understanding, and then, “We can stop, if you’d like,” and Angela needs a moment to consider that.

Certainly, being reminded so abruptly of Ana’s mortality was quite the turn-off, and normally, Angela _would _stop, if she did something like that, but they went through a lot of trouble, arranging this. Usually, when Ana gets back from missions, she is too tired or too much in the wrong headspace for this sort of play, and Angela did not even know for certain until a few hours ago whether or not they were still going to be on for tonight, needed to wait for that text message from Ana to confirm, and eleven days _is _a long time to have waited, only for this to come to nothing. Who knows when the next opportunity to do this might come along? It is not often that Ana is gone on non-lethal missions, and less often that Angela happens to be in town when she returns from them.

So, all things considered, she really does want to proceed, but, “Maybe be a bit gentler than we’d planned?”

For a moment, Ana seems to consider, and then, “Alright. Do you want me to leave you alone for a moment and come back in again, or would you rather we just continue from where we left off?”

“Kiss me for a minute,” Angela requests, needing something a bit more to get back into the right headspace for this sort of play, “And then we can continue where we stopped?”

Without so much as a word, Ana obliges, kisses her with the same intensity as she does anything else, strong and certain, and still smelling faintly of gunpowder. It is pleasant, like this, is worth the inconvenience of the mistake, to let Ana kiss her, to try, at first, to keep her own, before ceding control to Ana, letting herself be pushed back on the bed and pinned down, Ana’s hands grabbing her wrists, one with fingers still slightly tacky from having touched the now all but forgotten toy. 

And then, just when Angela is finally allowing herself to fully relax into the kiss, to get swept up in it and to enjoy it, her heart racing and her breath quickening, Ana pulls back and tells her, “You couldn’t even wait eleven days for me,” voice stern, again, and chiding.

“I’m sorry,” Angela says, more a mumble than anything, as if she were still embarrassed at having been caught, looks away, to try and add to the effect.

“Not sorry enough, clearly,” Ana tells her, and then, “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

(Sometimes, such an admonition might be accompanied by a slap to the cheek, but since Angela asked Ana to be gentle with her, tonight, it is not.)

“I will,” Angela says, eyes again locked with Ana’s one good eye.

A click of Ana’s tongue, sharp, admonishing, “You will _what_?”

“I will, Ma’am,” Angela corrects, and reminds herself that she is trying to be good, now, has to be, has to show Ana that she can obey her, if she needs to, can be _good _for her, if that is what Ana wants.

But Ana does not seem to be buying it, “And why,” asks she, “Should I believe that? You said you’d wait for me, too.”

That is true, Angela did promise that, did agree that she would not do anything until Ana got back—and even outside of character, outside of this scene, it was a breach of their agreement, of their plans, for her to have gotten out the toy. Not so much that Ana would mind, of course, but enough to catch her by surprise, something that really was an act of impatience and rebellion.

“But I did wait,” she protests, and this, too, is true, “That was the only time, I promise.”

“A likely story,” Ana says, and her tone sends a familiar shiver down Angela’s spine, has her pressing her legs together to try to get some sort of pressure against her center.

Ana notices the movement immediately. Even if she has only the one eye, it is still sniper-sharp. “Ah-ah-ah,” she chides, moving from her place kneeling above Angela to pry her knees apart. “See, you can’t even be good for one minute. How am I supposed to believe that you would listen for eleven days?”

“_Please_,” Angela says, not entirely sure, now, what she is begging for, not sure what gentler punishment Ana has plans, “I can be good. Let me prove it.”

Here is what she thinks will happen: that Ana will shuck her pants, will sit on Angela’s face, and will demand that she proves her devotion that way, will make her _make it up to _Ana by making her come, once, twice, three times, or however many times is necessary to satisfy Ana that she has gotten to come as many times as Angela _must have_, while she was away, given how naughty she is, and then, once Ana decides they are finally on even footing, she will let Angela come, let her grind herself to completion on Ana’s thigh, or some other such method, degrading, but not too much so. 

That would be typical, for the two of them, would be something that the both of them could enjoy, and not too over the top, not too humiliating, or too harsh, something that would satisfy them both, in the end.

But that is not what Ana wants, tonight, not what she decides to do. Instead, she moves off of Angela, tosses the still unclean toy back into the drawer, and says, “Strip,” in a way that has Angela scrambling to obey, all thoughts of embarrassment over her own inelegance thrown to the wayside as she all but throws off the bathrobe she had been wearing and tosses it to the wayside.

“Should I—” Angela starts to ask, wondering if she is meant to divest Ana of her clothing too.

“Did I say you could speak?” Ana asks her, apparently uninterested in what Angela would have asked, and uninterested, too, in removing her own clothing, save for that which she already left at the door, her boots, her coat, her hijab. 

When Angela shakes her head, says, “No, Ma’am,” Ana pushes her back down onto the bed, and places one palm in the center of her chest as if to hold her there.

“Then don’t,” Ana says. “So impatient, even now.”

Angela wants to argue, wants to insist that she is not, but she has an order, and she can be good, she can.

That does not stop her from shaking her head, as if to disagree.

“No?” Ana asks her, something deceptively sweet in her curious tone, “Then prove it.”

_Prove it_? How can she? Already, she did not make it through this challenge, and surely Ana does not mean to ask her to—

Ana does not _ask _anything, she orders. But now, she is not even doing that, is bringing one hand down to Angela’s chest, tracing the line of her sternum with one long finger. 

Ah. _Be patient._ Well, Angela can do that, has done so before, is more than capable of lying here, compliant, while Ana has her way with her. When she is told to, she can keep her hips still, can keep herself silent, can resist the urge to beg, to plead for more, faster, please.

She will show Ana just how patient she can be.

Curiously, however, Ana is not really taking her time, tonight, is sitting beside Angela, still, one hand tracing lazy circles around her breasts, and the other moving _very _quickly towards Angela’s center, playing with her folds for only a moment before touching her clit. It is almost _too_ quick, and Angela considers saying something, asking Ana to slow down, but she is still on the right side of this, as she always is, keeps _just _on this side of pleasure.

For her part, Angela stays quiet, stays still, does not jerk away at the sudden touch to her clit, tries to keep her breath as quiet and calm as possible when Ana starts to roll it beneath two fingers. It should be nice, so much happening so quickly, but with so little build up it is almost as if it is happening to someone else, as if the things she is feeling do not exist in the same body as the one thinking these thoughts. 

Is that her punishment, that she will get to come, but will not enjoy it? She certainly hopes not. There are many things they have tried, and Angela has appreciated nearly all of them, but that—

Well, she supposes that she enjoyed Ana making it up to her enough that it does not matter, so much, but after eleven days she really does want to be satisfied, really does want to be able to fully _experience _this.

But if she does not, that is her own fault. She needs to focus, so Ana has told her, needs to have the concentration that her lover possesses, needs to be able to be aware, and present in the moment.

Easy for Ana to say. As a sniper, her lover must always be grounded, but Angela’s job is more cerebral than that, more conscious thought and less instinct, more _acting _and less waiting. But is that not what Ana is trying to teach her? To be present, to live in the moment? To be able to seize life and—

And _oh _Ana’s hands are skilled. There is a callous on her trigger finger, and it is such a nice texture, here, so rough and so, so precise. If Ana wants Angela to come, then she will, she just needs to focus more on this, on the feeling of it, the building, the inevitability. It is right there, just out of her grasp, and if she focuses on the roughness, on the sensation, if she turns her attention inwards like Ana wants her to, then she can, she can, she _can_—

—Not come, because Ana pulls back.

Angela lets out a whine, at that, at the sudden coldness of the air against her where Ana’s hand had been, and the loss of contact, and the way her body has frozen up, so close, so _ready_, only for Ana to take away from her the orgasm at the last moment.

From the look Ana gives her, Angela knows that had she not requested gentleness, Ana would have slapped her for that whine.

(And, normally, Angela would have liked that.)

“You’ll come when I tell you to.” Ana informs her, frowning in a way that only makes Angela wish even more that she was being touched again.

A beat, two. Angela does not say anything, because she is not supposed to, but she wants to say _Yes, Ana, anything you want, _and _Please, I can’t, _and _Thank you thank you thank you _because this was just what she wanted, just what she needed, to be the complete center of Ana’s attention for an evening, to be given permission to stop thinking, for a little while, to be able to be something other than the woman she must be in order to her job.

“If you can’t be patient on your own,” Ana continues, hand returning to trace, now, around Angela’s entrance, and no doubt feeling the way Angela’s muscles jump, at that, the twitch of it, which brings another hot flush of embarrassment to Angela’s cheeks, adding to the red of arousal she knows must reach well down to her collarbone, “I will _make _you wait.”

For all her seriousness of tone, all the sternness, Ana’s expression is carefully blank, disaffected, as if it bored her to do this, to discipline Angela in this way, and that is better, somehow, better than fake anger, because Angela can see, as Ana inserts a finger into her, two, the way her pupil reacts, can see the way that mask slips, for only a moment. Ana has power over her, in this moment, but she has power, too.

(They are more equal than they pretend to be, in this and in all things. But to admit how very alike they are presents its own sort of danger.)

Again, Ana does not start slowly with her, nor gently. Rather quickly, she establishes their usual rhythm, and Angela, having been so recently denied, moves to meet her as much as possible, because Ana has told her not to speak, but not bade her be still. She half expects that she will be admonished for such, but she is not. In fact, Ana smiles, at that, corner of one side of her mouth curling up in a familiar tell—not aroused but _amused._

Why that is, Angela is not entirely certain, but she does not want to ask, either, does not want to break the rules again by speaking, wants to focus instead on this, the pleasant fullness of Ana inside of her, the brush of those knuckles in just the right place inside of her, the slight burn when Ana spreads her fingers slightly further apart. There are more important matters demanding her attention than the questions she has.

If she only focuses on her pleasure, only focuses on the way Ana braces one palm against her abdomen, rough, and warm against her skin, the other hand moving inside of her, then she can enjoy this, can maybe—

—Well, it will not be enough for her to come, like this. Vaginal stimulation is all well and good, but Angela never _quite _gets off that way, although she knows that it is theoretically possible. What she much prefers is for someone to touch her clit, and having been so teased as she was only minutes ago, the lack of contact there aches.

If she could speak, she would beg, but she cannot, can only wait, and wait, and wait, and feel as her breath quickens and her pulse rises, as she draws nearer, nearer, muscles getting tense and hips moving out of rhythm and—plateaus. 

Even when she tries, it is not quite enough, like this, no matter how nice Ana’s hands feel inside of her, no matter how close she feels she is getting, no matter how long she focuses, or how much she feels her cheeks burn, knowing that Ana is watching her. 

What must she look like, she wonders, like this? Cheeks red, face undoubtedly scrunched up, fists all tangled in the sheets—she must seem desperate, seem needy, biting her lip to keep from saying something, unable to keep still her hips, and that? That is a good sort of embarrassment, not the sort which, earlier, would have made her ashamed. When Ana is with her, it is alright, because she knows Ana has seen her like this, and worse, but keeps coming back, still finds her sexy, still _wants _her.

(That is a real fear that Angela never quite voices—that if she is not good enough, then the people in her life will leave. A lifetime of overachieving leads one to believe that one’s only value is in perfection. Yet Ana has never thought her perfect, and despite her admonishments, when they are like this, despite her repeated requests that Angela be patient, she is still _here. _Legally dead, and often away on work, but here.)

So the embarrassment is a good thing, in this scenario, is not necessarily sexy, in and of itself, but fills Angela with a different sort of warmth, beneath Ana’s sharp eye.

And, unafraid of embarrassment, unafraid of punishment, Angela decides to act out again, reaches downwards towards her clit, thinks, what is the worst that can happen? Ana may punish her, but what more will come of it?

Immediately, the hand Ana had rested on her abdomen moves to stop her, grabs her wrist, holds it, and the other hand she removes from Angela, just as abruptly. As she does so, there is a noise, and were Angela not so focused, instead, on what Ana is saying, that might be a little embarrassing, too—even if it is a natural byproduct of her arousal.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” Ana asks her, stern tone belied by her amused smile. 

At first, Angela only shakes her head, but the look Ana gives her makes it clear—she is meant to speak. “No Ma’am,” says she.

“You would think,” Ana says, bringing one hand—the one tacky with Angela’s fluids—to Angela’s chin to force her to meet her gaze directly, the sort of eye contact Angela always avoids, “That you would know better, by now.”

Even knowing Ana does not want her to, Angela flicks her gaze down and away, “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” says she.

“Shh,” says Ana, and the gentleness lets Angela know that she is really in trouble, for Ana is never so gentle with her.

(Not during one of these sessions, anyway. There are times when they have perfectly vanilla sex, and then, Ana is capable of being so tender that it makes Angela cry. To feel so loved, so cared for, is something very foreign to her, and she does not always respond the way she would like. This sort of affection is easier for her to process, with Ana treating her more harshly, more distantly, when expectations are clearly defined and her actions have consequences, as they should.)

“You don’t have to be sorry,” says she, “You can’t help that you don’t know any better.” There is an undercurrent to this statement—_I will make you learn._

Ana releases her face, moves between her legs, says, “This time, you don’t come until I say,” and they have not discussed this before, other than on a list of nebulous things to consider for the future, but nonetheless Angela finds herself nodding eagerly, wanting, now, to do anything to please Ana, to prove that she can be worthy of such gentleness, that she can live up to Ana’s expectations of her, if only she knows what they are.

(That she could not before, that she touched herself too early, before Ana returned home, does not matter anymore. That was preplanned, a mistake for which she was meant to be punished, and her other errors tonight have not been. She wants to prove to Ana that she is better than that, that she knows better and can be better. Disappointing Ana in a scripted way can be fun, and is one thing, but actually disappointing her, failing in some task set before her, is quite another, and Angela does not want to do that.)

But Ana is not making this easy for her, perhaps does not _want _Angela to obey. “I’ll teach you patience,” says she, before moving her mouth to suck and kiss along the inside of one of Angela’s thighs and then the other, warm breath tickling at Angela’s center when she pulls back to inspect the marks she has left before diving back in. There is no contact to sustain Angela’s arousal, no relief for the ache that she feels, both at her clit and the emptiness of having been so full, moments before, and left empty, now, and wanting. 

There is nothing to sustain Angela’s arousal, and yet, it hardly fades at all, is still there throughout all this, the teasing, as she waits and she wants for Ana to touch her. Just the knowledge of what is to come is enough to keep her tense, to keep her breathless, to keep her wanting. On any other night, this might be a pleasant break, might help her down from the edge and cool her down to the point that it will be easy to wait, but just the knowledge of what is to come, the anticipation, the knowledge that she _should _calm down is enough to stop her from doing so.

So she stays on edge, and she waits, and she waits, and just when it is becoming intolerable, when she thinks that surely, it could not hurt to beg, then Ana at last touches her, moves her mouth from the soft skin on the inside of Angela’s left thigh to her folds. Still, she does not do too much, not at first, gives a light flight with her tongue, then traces teasing little patterns. There is not enough pressure or this to be remotely satisfying, and no attention at all to her clit, but still, it is a relief, is proof that Ana is considering, now, satisfying her.

But no movement of her hips is enough to spur Ana on. Instead, Ana brings her hands to grab Angela on both sides of her waist, holds her still, holds her down, such that she cannot even attempt to seek her own pleasure.

(She likes this, of course, likes that here, now, she does not have to take charge, likes knowing that she can trust Ana to have control over her, and to do what is right. Too often, Angela is afraid of losing control in her life, but like this? She is free to hand it over.)

So she can do nothing but wait. Wait and want and try to focus on the feeling, the way Ana is touching her, the way her temperature is rising and sweat has begun to bead on her skin, and the fact that she is so wet, now, that she can feel as one drop, two, of wetness makes its way down her body and towards the bed sheets. It is not enough to be noticeable to anyone else, but it is there, and she knows it. 

But as she waits, as she thinks about these things, as she allows herself to be drawn in by the feelings, emotional and physical, and hopes to feel _enough _pleasure to alleviate some of the pressure, the aching, she makes a mistake, forgets herself, that she is meant to be _keeping _from becoming too aroused, that she is not supposed to come until Ana tells her.

While Ana is only playing with her, it is all well and good, but then Ana’s mouth is at her clit and Angela realizes how very close she has allowed herself to become already, and knows, too, that she cannot _do _anything about it, and worse, that she now has to hold herself back, to stop herself from coming.

She wants to. Badly, she wants to. It would be so easy, too, to tense her thighs just a little bit, to focus for just a moment, on the pressure at her core, and one well-timed flick of Ana’s tongue would be enough to set her off but she cannot obey Ana, will not. Not again.

She can be good. She can be. She can live up to expectations, she can, she _will._

Think instead about this: the way she still aches, from where Ana filled her earlier, and now is left empty, no attention paid to that part of her body, both of Ana’s hands being occupied with holding her down, and not with touching her in any other way. Too quickly, though, thinking turns to wanting, to fantasizing, to feeling the ghost of hands on her in nights previous and clenching around nothing, feeling closer than she was before. Do not think about this, because the memory is too recent, too strong, and to lose herself would be too easy.

She will keep her focus on this, on reality, and not let herself drift elsewhere.

But reality is too good, is too powerful, and if Angela focuses for a minute more on the way Ana’s mouth feels, when she sucks on her clit, she _knows _she will come, and that would be a disappointment, would be to disobey Ana, which she does not want to do.

Think instead about this: that her breasts have been completely neglected, tonight, that Ana might normally play with her nipples but instead they are just there and—no. Do not think about that, because then she can imagine the feeling of Ana’s mouth on them, sucking, or her teeth scraping, or her fingers pinching, and she shakes at the thought, she shakes and she shivers and she almost, almost comes.

But she is good, and she does not. She is good, and she waits.

This time, she tries to count the tiles on the ceiling, but it is not enough of a distraction, cannot take her away from the weight of Ana’s hands against her hips, the heat of Ana’s mouth against her body, and the way she is _burning _with it, feels as if the air is too thin and she is going to combust if she does not—

Think instead about this, what Ana would say to her, if she did come. Would she chastise her? Would she scold? Or would she tell her, _You’ll have to do better next time, _in that rich contralto of hers, whisper it into Angela’s ear, breath warm against her, sweet smelling hair curtaining their faces, hiding the exchange from the rest of the world. Do not think about such a thing, because to imagine Ana whispering her ear is to invite other thoughts, thoughts of Ana’s mouth on her neck or her lips against Angela’s own, thoughts of Ana telling her, _It’s alright, dear, you can come now, _and _You’ve been so good for me_, and Angela does not want to do that, does not want to disappoint, she shakes and she sobs and she cannot think of anything else, anything but Ana in and around her and she shivers, and she arches her back and—

—And she is _good, _she is, she will not give into this, even as she feels all the muscles in her body tighten, her walls contracting once, twice, before she stops herself with another sob, manages to resist, this time, but she is so close, so close, too close and Ana did not tell her yt that she could come.

If Ana were not holding her down, she would pull back, would take a break, because she knows if this continues, she will not be able to obey any longer, because she can think of nothing to distract herself but Ana, Ana, _Ana, _in and around and on top of her, possessing her and consuming her, and there is only so long one can stave such a thing as this off.

But she cannot move, and she knows—she knows that although she has tried so very hard to obey, it will not be possible for much longer, so she breaks another rule, a lesser one, “I can’t,” she gasps out, and “I’m sorry,” and then—

—And then Ana removes one hand from her hip, extends her arm as far as she can to rub a thumb soothingly over Ana’s cheek, and pulls back long enough to say, “It’s okay, Angela,” and that is all the permission Angela needs.

As soon as Ana’s mouth is back on her, Angela comes, and all thoughts of embarrassment from earlier are gone because she is just so, so grateful that she has finally been allowed this, and that she was good, after all, that she was able to wait as long as Ana wanted her to, in the end, that she did not disappoint. 

Until Ana’s fingers touch her face, Angela does not realize that she cried, that she _is _crying, does not fully understand why, but Ana does not mind, is not angry. Now that they are done, now that the scene is over, Ana’s touch is comforting, is gentle, is soft, “I’m here,” says she. “You’re fine, I’m here.”

Angela nods, and pulls herself up to hug Ana, buries her face in her lover’s neck and inhales the scent of her, takes comfort in it. Ana _is _here, Ana is well, and she is not leaving, not if she can help it.

(Nothing Angela could do would drive her away, now. For Ana, who is also so very flawed, she need not be perfect. For Ana, she need not be strong. For Ana, she need not pretend to be anything other than the woman she is, sometimes uncertain, sometimes wrong, sometimes unsuccessful, and with Ana, if she fails, it is alright. Like this, she need nothing but herself, and she knows that Ana, too, is free to be honest with her, to be herself, even when that woman is the same one who ran away from everything the two of them once stood for, who is afraid to return to the organization they once served together. Like this, nothing matters but that they have one another. All of these things, Angela feels, and none of them, she voices—half of them, she does not have the words for even for herself.)

“I know,” says she, and it is not what she means, not really, seems a weak response, but she is tired, now, physically and emotionally, and just so relieved that Ana is here, as she said. “’M glad you’re back. I missed you.”

At that, Ana chuckles, her voice rich and deep, “I was hardly gone,” says she, and then, “You really _are _impatient.”

Maybe that is so, but Angela thinks it is less that, impatience, less anxious waiting for Ana’s return, and more a sense of wholeness when she is here. The missing is not a conscious longing, but a lack, instead. Angela could live without Ana, and she has before, but her life is better for having Ana in it.

To say such a thing would be too much, however, too forward, would shatter whatever fragile thing they have allowed, against their better instincts, against their won natures, to grow between them. Ana _needs _to believe that the world is better without her, because she could otherwise never forgive herself for having left, as she did—and so Angela can never say just how much she is made happier for having Ana in her life.

Let Ana think this is purely sexual, let her lie to herself about what it is _she _gets from this, the unique comfort Angela offers for her, Angela does not care. So long as Ana is here, it does not matter. Both their lives are made better for this, whether they speak the truth or not.

“Hmm,” Angela pretends to consider, “Give me another few moments and I can show you all the things I missed.”

Ana’s grip on Angela changes then, the way she holds her, from comforting to something else entirely, “Oh?” asks she, “Care to tell me what you were thinking about, when I walked in?”

“It wasn’t as nice at what happened,” Angela says, and it is true—as much as she enjoys their play punishments, she finds that this, Ana giving her a chance to be _good_, to redeem herself, space to succeed and to make up for a failure, was nice in its own sort of way, was something she did not know she wanted, let alone needed.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Ana tells her, and Angela assents.

She trusts Ana, after all, trusts her judgement, trusts her to come back, as long as she is able, and trusts, most importantly, that Ana will not see her as unworthy, as unlovable, as anything less than _good enough_, which is all Angela has ever wanted to be.

For Ana, she can be good.

For Ana, she is good enough already.

**Author's Note:**

> in conclusion, im a softie
> 
> also shout out to my gf whose feedback basically consisted of telling me how horny she was LMAO
> 
> pls lmk ur thoughts if u enjoyed


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